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GODFREY OF BOULOGNE
The moon hung low o'er Provence vales,
'T was night upon the sea;
Fair France was wooed by Afric gales,
And paid in minstrelsy;
Along the Rhone there moves a band,
Their banner in the breeze,
Of mail-clad men with iron hand,
And steel on breast and knees:
The herdsman following his droves
Far in the night alone,
Read faintly through the olive groves,—
'T was Godfrey of Boulogne.
The mist still slumbered on the heights,
The glaciers lay in shade,
The stars withdrew with faded lights,
The moon went down the glade.
Proud Jura saw the day from far,
And showed it to the plain;
She heard the din of coming war
But told it not again:
The goatherd seated on the rocks,
xxvii
